The Pain slut and the Remfayre (F/M, M+/FF)-more extreme than my ususal

[Janbound]

The rope hissed through her fingers before she could drop it, the frayed end lashing against her thigh like a warning. Nobody had seen her pick it up—the vendor’s booth was unmanned, stacks of hemp coils gathering dust beside jars of dubious-looking salves.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, eyes scanning the crowd. Leather-clad jesters, merchants hawking pewter goblets, a group of drunkards singing off-key by the ale tent. Renfayre was always a mess of bodies and noise, but today it felt like the air itself was sticky with anticipation.

The rope coiled around her wrist now, rough against her skin. Not hemp—something thicker, older. The kind of rope that left marks if you struggled. She swallowed hard, pulse fluttering at her throat. Yesterday’s bruises had barely faded, yellow-green ghosts along her ribs. The memory made her thighs press together.

A shadow fell across the hay-strewn ground. “Lost, sweeting?” The voice was honey over gravel, unmistakable even before she turned. Gwen. Her gloves creaked sas he flexed her fingers, the scent of leather and last night’s wine clinging to her. She knew that look—half amusement, half hunger. The same look she’d given her before pinning her against the tavern wall with a knee between her legs.

The rope jerked taut around her wrist. Gwen had the other end. “Found something that belongs to me, I think.”

She could’ve pulled away—could’ve twisted free and vanished into the crowd—but her breath hitched instead, the rough fibers digging in just enough to make her toes curl against the damp grass. Gwen’s smirk deepened. “Always so eager to be caught.” A calloused thumb brushed the welt rising on her wrist, and she bit down on the whimper threatening to escape.

The rope wound tighter, guiding her stumbling steps past a trio of barefoot, giggling milkmaids who didn’t so much as glance their way. Behind the blacksmith’s tent, Gwen yanked sharply, spinning her until her back hit the weathered oak post holding up a sagging canopy. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunlight as Gwen leaned in, the heat of her body a brand against her front. “Open.” The command was soft, but her mouth obeyed before her mind could protest, lips parting around the knot of the rag Gwen produced from her belt.

It tasted of salt and something faintly metallic—just like last time. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Gwen’s fingers lingered, tracing the outline of the gag against her lips before moving to the post. The rope bit into her wrists as it lashed around them, the rough bark scraping her shoulder blades through the thin linen of her peasant top. Distantly, goat bells clanked from the livestock pen, mingling with the rhythmic thud of her own heart in the back of her throat.

She tested the bonds—once, twice—knowing full well they wouldn’t give. The rope groaned against the post, tightening with every twitch of her arms, the fibers already damp with sweat. Gwen stepped back, boots crunching on trampled straw, and the slow appraisal in her gaze was worse than any touch. It lingered on the way her chest rose too fast, unrestircted by any bra for a mediaeval peasant, on the flush creeping down her throat, on the involuntary arch of her spine as she fought the urge to squirm.

"Look at you," Gwen murmured, dragging a gloved knuckle down the exposed column of her throat. "Tied up in broad daylight like some common tavern whore." The words curled around her, thick as the scent of roasting meat from nearby spits. A breeze lifted the edges of Gwen’s tunic, revealing the familiar hilt of her dagger—the one she’d used last week to cut her free, right before bending her over a hay bale. The memory made her thighs tremble.

Behind them, the festival clamored on—hammers ringing against anvils, children shrieking near the cider barrels—but here, in this pocket of shadow, time stretched like the rope biting into her flesh. Gwen’s breath was warm against her ear now, fingers working open the laces of her bodice with practiced ease. The linen sagged, baring one shoulder, then the curve of a breast to the afternoon sun. Cool air prickled across her skin, but it was the weight of Gwen’s stare that made her nipples tighten.

"Think they’ll hear you if I make you scream?" Gwen’s teeth grazed her earlobe, the question barely louder than the rustle of the canopy above them. Her fingers found a nipple—pinched just shy of cruelty—and the muffled sound that escaped the gag was more whine than protest. The rough fabric between her teeth absorbed it greedily. Gwen chuckled darkly, dragging her thumb in slow circles until her hips jerked forward against empty air. "Or maybe you want them to hear. Maybe you’d like some dusty farmer stumbling back here, seeing you trussed up like a feast-day pig."

The canvas above them flapped in a sudden gust, sending fractured sunlight skittering across Gwen’s smirk. Her fingers didn’t stop—cruel, teasing strokes now, circling but never quite giving the pressure she craved. The rope groaned as she arched into nothing, her bodice hanging loose around her elbows, the woolen skirts damp where they clung to her thighs. Gwen’s free hand slid down, over the swell of her belly, pausing just above the ache between her legs. “Already this wet?” The whisper curled like smoke in her ear. “And we’ve barely started.”

Behind them, a donkey brayed—too close—but Gwen didn’t flinch. Her thumb hooked under the waistband of her skirt, callouses catching on linen. The first tear of fabric was deafening. Cool air licked her bare skin, followed by the hotter press of Gwen’s palm. No teasing now. A ragged moan muffled into the rag as fingers parted her, the glide obscenely easy. “Christ, you’re dripping,” Gwen growled, working her deeper with each thrust. “Bet the whole fucking fair could smell you if the wind turned.”

Sunday bells tolled in the distance, lazy and sacrilegious over the din of the festival. The irony wasn’t lost on her—wrists raw against the post, legs splayed for anyone to see, Gwen’s fingers fucking her like she’d been made for it. She rolled her hips, chasing the friction, but Gwen withdrew with a wet sound. “Naughty,” she chided, wiping her hand on the rumpled skirt. “What would the priest say? His favorite penitent, spread open behind the blacksmith’s tent like a—”

The rest was cut off by the sudden crack of a whip—not Gwen's, but the fat-bellied sheriff's, his jowls quivering as he rounded the tent with two pikemen at his heels. "Desecration of the Sabbath!" he bellowed, flecks of spittle catching the sunlight. Gwen's hand flew to her dagger, but the pikemen's halberds crossed in front of her chest before she could draw, the steel glinting like a smile.

She froze against the post, the rag in her mouth suddenly tasting of fear instead of salt. The sheriff's whip curled lazily in the dirt, stirring up dust that clung to her damp thighs. "Loosed your tongue on holy ground, have you?" He leaned in, his breath reeking of onion and piety. Up close, his doublet strained at the buttons, the embroidery frayed where his gut pushed against it. "We'll see how loudly you sing when the lash bites."

Behind him, the pikemen snickered—low, wet sounds that made her skin crawl. Gwen's fingers twitched near her dagger, but the halberd blades pressed closer, dimpling the leather over her ribs. The sheriff's gaze slid down her half-bared chest, lingering on the marks Gwen's teeth had left last night. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Aye, we'll make an example of you. Cleanse the fair of your filth."

Rough hands tore at Gwen’s tunic, the fabric yielding with a rip that echoed the sheriff’s laughter. Cold air hit her skin as they shoved her against the neighboring post, her dagger clattering to the dirt. Jan’s breath came fast through the gag—half terror, half something darker—as they stripped her bare with the same indifferent brutality, her peasant blouse fluttering to the ground like a surrender flag. The oak posts stood sentinel, their bark groaning under the strain of fresh ropes as wrists and ankles were lashed tight enough to bruise.

Jan’s thighs trembled, not from the chill but from the weight of stares—pikemen, vendors, even a cluster of wide-eyed milkmaids and taver girls dragged close by curious cistomrers. The sheriff’s whip tapped against his thigh in a lazy rhythm, its braided leather whispering promises. Gwen spat at his feet, earning a backhand that split her lip. Blood traced a hot path down her chin, but her grin never wavered. “That all you’ve got, old man?” Her voice was raw, but the challenge in it curled like smoke between them.

The wooden bit pressed against her tongue, its rough grain catching on the roof of her mouth as it was forcibly tied behind her neck, spliting jer lips and feeling like her jaw was dislocating. Gwen had carved it herself—she recognized the uneven grooves, the faint taste of pine resin lingering in the cracks. It forced her jaw wide, stretching her lips obscenely around its girth, the leather straps biting into the corners of her mouth. Drool pooled under her tongue, escaping in thin rivulets down her chin to mix with the sweat between her breasts.

Across from her, Jan strained against her own bonds, muscles standing out in sharp relief as she twisted to watch the sheriff’s men drag a weathered whipping post from behind the ale tent. The crowd murmured—half horrified, half hungry—as they positioned it between them, its base leaving dark smears in the dirt. Jan’s breath hitched when she saw the fresh notches along its length, pale wood gleaming where lashes had bitten deep. The sheriff ran a thumb over them with the reverence of a priest tracing scripture.

Gwen’s gag muffled something between a laugh and a snarl when the pikemen shoved her forward, her knees hitting the dirt hard enough to send up puffs of dust. The sheriff’s boot pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her chest against the post. Splinters bit into her breasts as they lashed her wrists above her head, the rope hissing through iron rings with a sound like a blade being whetted. Behind her, a pikeman’s belt buckle clanked—too close—as he loosened his leathers.

The first lash came without warning. A crack like green wood splitting, followed by the white-hot bloom across Gwen’s back. She arched against the post, the muscles in her arms standing out like cable as she swallowed her scream. Jan watched, transfixed, as a bead of sweat slid down Gwen’s spine, mingling with the first thread of blood. The sheriff’s next stroke landed lower, curling around her ribs to kiss the underside of her breast. This time, Gwen’s teeth sank into the wooden bit hard enough to send a splinter skittering into the dirt.

Withneach stroke she screamed louder as Jan watched, horrified, yet befging for her turn to come soon.

[LunaDog]

This is written so vividly that i can literally picture the scene in my head. Well done, utterly superb!

[Caesar73]

This is written so vividly that i can literally picture the scene in my head. Well done, utterly superb!

Absolutely! Well done!